To Catch a Fleeting Moment
by Heptagon
Summary: A collection of stories. Brief glimpses into different lives at different times.
1. Peace

**Note:** This is going to be a collection of stories, too short and undeveloped for my liking to be posted separately. One day I might start picking characters randomly, but right now I have enough ideas to write about. Also, as a rule, the action of each piece takes time in one place at one time. I'll try to use different characters, but my favourite ones (for now, Daphne) may appear more often than others.

* * *

**Peace**

"The main ingredients of the Draught of Peace are powdered moonstone and the syrup of which very poisonous plant?"

He read the question out loud and looked at his companions, as if waiting for them to supply an answer, though in truth he expected no such thing. Even his companions knew, most of the time, that no such mental effort was anticipated from them, and stared at their parchment, patiently waiting for him to come up with the answer.

They were idiots, of course, utter fools and morons, but they were loyal and useful in other ways. Yet sometimes he regretted the absence of a considerably smarter companion – not too smart, not anyone as awful as that Granger; he could not understand how Potter was able to tolerate her – but someone just bright enough. Crabbe and Goyle were very talented when it came to beating up young Gryffindors, but it had dawned on Draco that his life contained greater tasks and aims than terrorising his fellow students, tasks to which his companions could contribute in very small, meaningless ways, if any at all.

Though infinitely annoyed with their lack of intelligence, they were useful enough for him to keep them, and help them academically, by letting them copy his homework. At one point he had even tried to teach them something, but it had proved way too bothersome. There was very little need to bring them along to the library, but they might amuse him on the way there by finding a suitable victim to bully. And they were there to laugh at his derisive comments, though all the wit was lost on them. And if someone decided to come and assault him, they knew a couple of nasty hexes, or could at least break the offender's arm.

And though they did bother him, they bothered him much less than anyone else he could have invited into the library, like Pansy, for example. At least the brutes came here with the purpose of doing homework, or homework being done for them, and if he wished, he could tell them to shut up and then pretend that they did not exist. Pansy had the habit of always reminding him of her presence, in a hundred little ways that all annoyed him very greatly. And she thought that the point of going to the library was to snog in public.

He tapped the parchment with his quill, frowning. He didn't know the answer. Neither did Crabbe or Goyle. It was probably written down somewhere in his Potions book, but he couldn't be bothered to look it up yet. He thought of telling his companions to do it for him, and was greatly annoyed when they failed to read his mind. Such useless lumps of flesh! There they sat, stupidly staring into the void, quills ready to write down the answer yet incapable of doing anything to find it out by themselves. They could read, to some extent at least. But the idea of taking out their Potions book and looking for the answer was clearly beyond their reach.

Draco let himself wallow in his annoyance with them for a moment longer, and doing that, he heard a clear voice speak, "Hellebore."

He knew by the tone alone that it had not come from either of his companions. Of course, they were too stupid to even suggest an answer, but the voice was also full of such steadiness and clarity as neither possessed. In addition to that, it was a distinctly female voice. Draco looked up.

A girl stood by their table. She had dark hair and skin and an expression of benevolence. She was pointing at his homework, to make it plain that she was giving him the answer to his question.

He recognized her, and it was a relief to have someone to insult. Someone intelligent who understood that she was being insulted.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, sneering at her. "What a _generous_ Gryffindor you are. I'm almost sorry to tell you, but since this is probably the only way you ever get boys to notice you, and perhaps even _repay_ your kindness, I suggest you look up the _correct_ answer before running off to whisper it into the ear of someone with considerably lower standards."

He finished and sat back to enjoy the hurt, the indignation, and the angry reply. All he got, however, was one long look, and then the girl left. She simply turned and walked away, without a single sign of raised tempers, perfectly cool and calm. There was something in her look that bothered him, but for the moment Goyle's muttered words bothered him more.

"What?" he snapped at him.

"She's not a Gryffindor," Goyle said. "Her twin sister is a Gryffindor, but she's a Ravenclaw."

Draco stared, barely able to keep his jaw from dropping open. He was about to demand from Goyle the explanation of such manifestation of intellect, and worse, interest, but then changed his mind, and remarked with sarcasm, "In that case, you better run after her and give her my most sincere apologies."

He returned to ponder about her last look, while Goyle half-rose to follow his command, was pulled back down by Crabbe, and a small argument issued between them, whether Draco had meant his words or not.

Had it been pity, patronisation, quiet contempt? No. There had been an overall calmness, as if nothing, nothing at all, could disturb her peace of mind. And the other component – apathy, indifference, lack of interest. She had looked down at him, determining whether he was worth the effort of another word from her – apparently he wasn't. She was nothing, nobody, and it shouldn't have bothered him the least that she deemed him unworthy of a reaction to his insult. But the look itself was a gravest insult to him – no one, no one should look at him like that! It was the look he used to whip at others, but nobody should dare use it on him. Someone would be getting a long, unpleasant, and painful visit from his goons soon after, though he had yet to decide whether to attack the girl herself, her twin sister, or both.

He raised his quill and marked down the answer she had given him.

Such unwavering calmness, such perfect peace of mind... all that would soon be wiped away. If he couldn't have it, neither should anyone else.


	2. Fool

**Fool**

Daphne was sitting in the Cauldron, glaring at her drink. She had been doing that for a while now, yet the liquid in her glass was still untouched. She hadn't come here to drink, she'd come here to glare, and glaring was much easier while being sober.

She'd also come here to meet her friend Millicent, who arrived fashionably late and in considerably better spirits. Daphne did not look up as she took a seat at the table, calling out a greeting. It didn't take Millicent much time to appraise the situation, and she waited silently until her own drink arrived. Then she took a sip of it, and remarked,

"I suggest that you commence with the ranting. Otherwise I might decide you'd much rather be left to glare on alone."

Daphne glanced up at her friend, considering the words that had been spoken. She then pushed her glass a little away, resting her elbows on the table and her chin upon her palms, exchanging the glare for deep pouting.

"That bad, huh?" Millicent prompted.

"Have you read the paper today?" Daphne eventually asked.

"Skimmed it, yes. You could be a little more specific, though."

"Can't you guess?" Daphne said, sounding annoyed that Millicent hadn't.

"If you're referring to a certain piece of news concerning a propo…"

"Argh!" Daphne groaned. "Must you always speak like that?"

"Like what?" Millicent asked, mainly amused.

"You know what I mean," she said. "I have no patience for your pretty speeches."

"No, I suppose not," Millicent spoke, narrowing her eyes. She could comment about her own patience pertaining to Daphne's foul mood, but she decided to be generous. For now.

"Alright," she said flatly, "Could this possibly… I mean… is this about Astoria and Draco?"

Daphne replied with a possibly affirmative growl.

"I take it you're not happy about their upcoming nuptials?"

"Do I look happy to you?"

Millicent sat back on the chair, proceeding to consume her drink. She'd need another soon enough. After a while she shrugged,

"Some people might think you'd be happy for them. Some people might think you should be happy for them."

"Screw them," Daphne said.

"You're more peeved about this than I'd have thought," Millicent said, frowning. She searched for a possible explanation for Daphne's reaction to what one might call good news, and went with the first that came to her mind, however unlikely.

"If you want him for yourself, you can always break them apart."

One look at Daphne and Millicent knew she had guessed right. Well, well, think about that. Millicent sipped her drink and thought about it. For years Daphne and Draco had been friends. Just friends. She wasn't aware of them being anything more than that, and she was pretty sure that nothing of the kind had happened, or else she would have heard something of it from Daphne. Being friends, the two had spent some time together, paying each other visits, and being her sister, Astoria had often joined their company, and it wasn't long before meetings of an entirely different kind had started to take place between the Malfoy heir and the younger Greengrass.

During their very public courtship, Millicent had never got an impression from Daphne of her disliking the match. She had regarded it as a bit of an annoyance, because Draco had abandoned her for her sister, and didn't have much time for Daphne. But she had never guessed that Daphne's indignation went any deeper than that, or that she was bothered by anything else than a temporary loss of a friend.

"I had no idea you've harboured feelings of such kind," Millicent remarked. "Or is this a recent development?"

"You mean, am I coveting him now just because I cannot have him?" Daphne shrugged. "No, I don't think so. I always thought we would end up together. I failed to recognize Tori as my rival."

"You cannot really wonder about his choice. She is the younger, prettier, livelier version of yourself, as you have often told me."

Daphne only glared at her in reply, possibly acknowledging the truth in this.

"Of course, you thought he had sweeter feelings for you," Millicent continued ruthlessly. "You thought that he was getting to know you, and falling in love with you in the course of it. But instead he caught a glimpse of your sister, and took a fancy for her, and though you never suspected it at the time, he might have used you as an excuse for seeing your sister."

"If you keep talking like that," Daphne growled, "I'm going to take this drink and throw it to your face."

Millicent shrugged. "You may do as you like. But I was simply reading your mind and I am done now. Besides, I'm not the one that stole Draco Malfoy from you."

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," Daphne berated herself. "I should have seen the threat that Tori posed to me. I should have snatched him for myself when there was no agreement between them."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because she was clever. She told me there was nothing serious between them, that they were merely friends, and she made me believe that he was using her to get closer to me, while in truth it was exactly the other way around."

"So she knew that you liked him?" Millicent asked.

"She knew I was flattered by the thought of him liking me," Daphne replied. "I don't think she knew any more than that."

"But is there really any more than that?"

"Would I be here, glaring daggers at my drink, if there weren't?" Daphne retorted.

"It may be indignation at being ill-used by him," Millicent offered. "Think about it, Daphne. Do you really wish to be the Malfoy bride, with all the weight that is attached to such a position?"

Daphne shook her head, "Not particularly. But I do want to become Draco's wife."

"Alas, you cannot have one without the other. And is the delight of one really worth suffering the other?"

"You make it sound like a great evil."

"Isn't it?" Millicent asked. "It's worse than having to marry Harry Potter."

Daphne stared at her, absently reaching for her drink, "How so?"

"The way I see it," Millicent explained, leaning into a comfortable position, "Draco Malfoy is to old dignified families what Harry Potter is to the rest. He's a kind of celebrity, a role model. He has to be perfect in everything he does, and since he naturally is perfect in everything he does, his wife must be completely faultless, and even then she might get all the blame. Obviously, no one is good enough to the Malfoy heir, and I'm sure they all make sure that the bride knows it."

She paused, both for the effect and to see how her recipient was taking in the story; on the other side of the table Daphne was frowning and drinking, but not yet arguing.

"And then there's the subject of ultimate importance, bloodline continuation. The whole purpose of a Malfoy wife, other than to appear indisputably impeccable, is to produce a male heir. Until she does that, she is worthless, and when she does have a child, gods help her if it's a girl. After that, she's Mrs Malfoy, the mother of the new heir, the wife of the previous one. She'll never be anything more than that. And all the time, there are people watching her every step and waiting like vultures for her to misbehave, so that they could then condemn her and feel better about their own shortcomings."

Daphne finished her drink in silence, and ordered another.

"If what you speak is true," she said quietly, "I should break up the match to save my sister from this awful fate."

"Tori's not a fool. She knows very well what she's getting into."

"So I'm the fool?" Daphne asked, playing with her empty glass.

"Yes," Millicent replied. "You are the fool. You were too much of a fool to snatch up Malfoy when he was all yours, and you're a bigger fool to want him now that he's betrothed to your sister. You had your chance and you missed it."

"I can—" Daphne started.

"Break them up? If you really believed that you could do it, you wouldn't be sitting here glaring at your drink and ranting about it, you'd be out there doing it. You are a fool, but not so big a fool to actually consider doing it, because you know it would cost you dear – you'd either lose your sister, or both of them, the affections of your family, and the respect of the polite society. But the main reason, I think, why you wouldn't do it in a million years, is that you love them both and want them to be happy."

Daphne glanced at her friend, then picked up her new drink, and emptied it in one go. Millicent followed the example, and ordered them both a refill.

"I do want them to be happy," she confessed in the middle of her third drink. "But I want _**me**_ to be happy, as well."

"Who knows," Millicent remarked. "Perhaps it won't work between them. They might end up hating each other, and then you'll have your chance of swooping in and taking what you want. It's no fun being a Malfoy wife, but it might be better being a _**second**_ Malfoy wife. I really wouldn't put it past him, he seems that sort of type."

Daphne nodded, and stared moodily at the table.

"That's really bad advice," she finally spoke, fixing Millicent with a half-drunken gaze.

"Yes," Millicent agreed, smirking, "It is."


	3. Risk

**Risk**

She had followed the others to the place of evacuation, yet she had not left with them. She had lingered back, pressed herself into the shadows, edged towards the door, and finally slipped away unnoticed. The castle was already in turmoil, and would soon be overwhelmed with chaos, and no one would pay her too much attention – until of course someone did. Then she would fight, and perhaps die. She would become one of them, and remain so for the rest of her life – all the years to come, or all the minutes to follow. She was old enough to choose her death.

Once out of the room, she had fled down the hallways, yet not so much in fear of being discovered and called back – because she did have every right to stay and fight – but because she was terrified, absolutely terrified of what she'd decided to do. She needed to get away as far as possible from the doorway to safety, lest she would let the terror cripple her mind, and go back. She tried not to think about what might have been, and definitely not about what would be; in fact, she tried not to think at all. The walls around her contained many memories, and spoke of the world that once was and would soon come to an end, whichever kind of end it may be, and whether she lived to see it or not.

She didn't want to die, and quite probably her staying here tonight would have no impact whatsoever on the events to follow. She might save a life or two, and end a life or two, but the final result she had no power to alter; so did it really matter so much whether she stayed or not? It did matter to her; but the thought that had made her stop, and stay, and shake with fright yet still remain – was that if things did go wrong, she wanted it all to end here and tonight. She didn't want to live and see what would happen next – her nightmares of it had been more than enough.

"Daphne!"

She barely heard the call and ignored it, until someone grabbed hold of her arm and forced her to stop; she looked and saw her friend Theodore – his usually pale face was rather red, and bore the expression of panic mixed with relief.

"Daphne, why the devil are you still here? Everybody else has already left. They're about to seal the exit."

In lack of anything better to say, she threw the question back at him, "Why are _you_ still here?"

"I've been looking for you," he said, and she wanted to melt under his gaze that spoke of so much more. But there was no time for it now, and little chance of a future possibility. Little chance of a future.

"Let's go," he said, urgently pulling her forward. She resisted with all her might, both his physical force and her secret wish to stay at his side for ever.

"No," she told him. "No, I'm not coming."

"What do you mean you're not coming?" he demanded. "There's a war going on here. You cannot stay."

"Lots of people are staying here," she pointed out.

"Let those fools do what they want," he growled, dragging her along. She took a few steps after him, feeling how easy it was to follow – she had tried, it hadn't worked, could anyone really blame her? Some would, some wouldn't, though no one had probably expected her to stay. She hadn't expected to stay, or to want to stay. But she did, and she had to fight harder, otherwise she might never forgive herself.

"I'm just a fool like the rest of them, Theo," she said, stopping and trying to pull her arm free. "Let me do what I want. Let me help."

"Help! You want to help!" he cried out and spun round to face her – and his expression was so terrifying that she almost yelped in fear – but then she yelped in pain, because he had hurled her against the wall, and his hands held her as vices, hurting, bruising her skin.

It had never occurred to her that he was enemy – but he was, wasn't he? Here and now, at the end of the day, and at the end of all things.

"What can you possibly do to help?" he growled, his face inches away from hers, "You are nothing but a little girl, little frail useless girl. You cannot fight properly! You never get your spells right! You make a mess of everything! And you think that you could somehow help the Dark Lord? He doesn't want you! He'll never want a weakling like you!"

She didn't understand why he'd said such things – hurtful, spiteful, untrue – but she didn't stop to ponder about it. She decided to prove him wrong instead, so she wriggled one hand free of his grasp, whipped out her wand, and held it against his neck, matching his terrible stare with her own, no less harsh. Her voice when she spoke was much steadier than she'd expected – it was a welcome surprise.

"It's not the Dark Lord I'm going to help."

They had gone to school together, studied together, grown up together, been friends, laughed, even flirted a bit, gone to Hogsmeade together, given each other Christmas presents, practiced spells together, talked about all kinds of things, opened up and shared secrets, comforted each other, been happy together, done mischief together, studied for their exams, talked about their hopes and dreams for the future, once almost kissed, exchanged letters during summer, hugged, missed each other, fought and made up, been angry and forgiven, split up and reunited, lived together – and none of it mattered now when the world as they knew it was coming to an end, and she had left his side once and for all.

He let go of her and stepped away, glancing briefly at her wand then returning his hard stare to her face. He looked furious. Of course he would – she had betrayed him and everything they had done together.

"Is this it?" he hissed. "You want to stay, and fight, and _die_ for Potter?"

He spat these words with such utter contempt that her hand shook – but only once. Her voice was still as steady as ever,

"Not for him. But I've been thinking about it, and I do not want to live in a world ruled by the Dark Lord."

"Oh, but you will," he said. "You are going to live in it, and you're going to love it, because he'll know if you don't, and then he'll destroy everything and everyone you once loved. He'll rip your family apart – he'll torture your mother, your father, your little sister before your eyes until you beg him to stop, until you hear them to beg for their death, until you scratch out your eyes and cover your ears to stop seeing their faces and stop hearing their cries, but he'll make you watch it, and it will never stop, and he will never stop— and he will not kill you before he has killed them in a more terrible way you could ever imagine, and perhaps he will not kill you even then, but keep you as a favourite toy, and your days would be filled with your cries of pain, and your dreams would be filled with the cries of all those you held dear, all those now gone, tortured and killed, and all that because of you! Because you were a fool who believed that goodness would triumph evil and wanted to help to make the world a better place."

Now her hand was shaking real bad, and tears were streaming down her face, and she wanted to howl in pain and misery, as if his words had already come true. She didn't stop him as he closed down upon her and snatched her wand away – she was trembling all over, and her vision had gone misty, and it was only a matter of time before her legs could no longer carry her – the world tilted before her eyes, and the dim light around her was growing darker still.

And then it passed, almost as suddenly as it had come to happen. She regained full consciousness and awareness – someone was holding her up; no, someone was holding her, holding her gently, and whispering words of comfort into her ear. She closed her eyes, laid her head down upon his shoulder, and pretended that none of this was happening. That it was not the end of the world as they knew and loved it.

But there was no time to pretend, and he knew it, and she knew it as well.

"Daphne," he said, soft yet urgent, "We have to go now."

She stood up a little straighter and steadier, and wiped her tears away, carefully avoiding his gaze.

"I really want to stay here and help," she said.

He gently turned her face towards him and kissed her forehead. When she didn't raise her eyes and look at him, he kissed it again and rested his own against it, "I know you want to. But you cannot, you cannot risk it, and I cannot— risk you doing it."

He moved his head to whisper straight into her ear, because his words were very dangerous, and would do much harm when heard by the wrong kind of people.

"If it were sure that Potter would win, if I could be sure that his chances were good, and if our presence would truly make a difference – I'd let you stay, and I would stand right beside you, and together we would fight, or perish, if the fates would have it that way – but we'd stand together and fight for a better world. But I cannot be sure of this, and I cannot risk you losing your life in such a meaningless way, or worse, survive to face the punishment. I cannot risk him hurting you for your disobedience, and you know that he can and will do all that I spoke of, if he should like it."

She trembled in his embrace at the memory of those terrible words, and he pressed her closer to him.

"So you may choose your death, you may choose to stay and fight, but if you do choose it, I will curse you and take you away. You may still risk it all, if you wish to, but I will not risk you."

He released her then, and even gave her back her wand, and then stood there, looking at her, waiting for her to make the choice. Why was he willing to waste the time for it, she didn't know. After all, it wouldn't make much difference – he had made it clear to her. She glanced along the hallway towards death and destruction, and considered making a run for it. But he would curse her, or worse yet – perhaps he would not curse her. Perhaps he would let her go to die, or suffer consequences far worse.

Yet there were people who stayed – to fight for a better world, and die for it, if the fates would have it that way, or survive and face the consequences. They stayed. They all believed that Potter could win, that they could win, that goodness could win – and they stayed.

And what did she believe? Really believe, not wish and hope and pray.

She raised her gaze and her hand – she looked at him, looked him in the eye, looked through him and into him, looked at him as if it would be her last chance in this world. She wanted to do more than look, much more – to talk, to say things, to do things – but this was not the time or the place for it.

"I'm sorry," she said, crying once more. "I'm sorry."

And then she lowered her wand, turned, and started walking. He quickly came to her side, and put his arm around her, prompting her to go a little faster.

She knew it would be a long time before she was able to forget herself. But at least she'd have a long time trying to forgive herself, and he would stand at her side, and right now there was still time to wish and hope and pray that everything would end well.


	4. Water

**Water**

Katie stood at the door, her hand raised for knocking, feeling several things at once – disappointment, anger, concern, surprise, embarrassment, confusion, awe. She needed a moment to compose herself, to put all these emotions on hold, and concentrate on the task awaiting her. This "mission" had been assigned to her by her team-mates Fred and George Weasley, who had somehow convinced her that she was the only one capable of successfully completing this task, which had led to her standing at the bathroom door, the other side of which their captain was currently trying to drown himself, according to the twins.

Thence came the surprise, confusion, anger, and awe, for she couldn't quite believe that they had managed to gain her participation in the plan or made her believe such nonsense in the first place. But it was her concern that kept her there, in case they were right, while embarrassment made her hesitate before knocking on the door.

She didn't mind staying back in the changing rooms, Gryffindor tower was not a fun place to be after losing a Quidditch game. But she couldn't remain here forever – sooner or later Oliver would come out of the bathroom, and getting caught at such a place in such a position by him, would make her current embarrassment be nothing in comparison. The best, most reasonable plan was to turn around and leave at once. If Wood wanted to drown his misery in water, then who was she to disapprove of his way of dealing with it, or intrude upon his private moments.

She was his Chaser, but she would never chase after him. Katie blushed dark red, suddenly very grateful that there was this door here, between herself and Oliver Wood, who was currently taking a shower and therefore— but she managed to stop there, and instead of berating herself she laid all the blame on Fred and George, who probably well-deserved it. She really should turn around and go away. And she did not, let it be clear, have any feelings for her team captain, other than due respect. If there had been a time, and she didn't say that there was, when her silly girlish mind had been confused with silly girlish feelings – that time was long past now, and their relationship purely professional.

Oliver took his Quidditch very seriously. Things like inter-team romances would surely mess up the dynamics of it, and therefore were not to be tolerated, or at the very least, encouraged. She remembered quite well his sour mood at finding out about Fred and Alicia. But none of this mattered to her, because she didn't have feelings for him, or for any other boy on their team. Well, she did have certain feelings for Fred and George right now, but these very different from the ones that she _didn't_ have for Oliver.

She glared at the door. Her hand was still raised, ready to do the knocking, but she was not sure how to proceed from there. If he answered to her knocking, what would she say next?

Hi, it's me, Katie. I just wanted to make sure that you were fine. I was a bit worried, that is, we are all a bit worried since we just lost a game and you do have a reputation of taking losses hard, and we just wanted to make sure that you were fine. You are a very good captain, you know, and this was none of your fault, and we are a good team, and we will go on training to become better, even if we have to wake up six o'clock each morning – but we shouldn't do that, because we are already pretty good and today was just a stroke of bad luck and our school work would suffer if we didn't get enough sleep, we would fall asleep in class and get detention for it, and that would be a great waste of time, which is why we should not have practice six o'clock in the morning, but we will train, and we will get better, and one day, we will win the Quidditch Cup. And you should come out of the bathroom, and walk proud, because we wouldn't be what we are without you. Because you are a good captain, and everyone on the team knows that. We all respect you and admire your devotion.

Well, she could say that. With a few minor edits, it might not be a bad speech. It had managed to make her feel better, and if she said it with the door still closed, she might blush all that she wanted, and he would witness none of it. Not that she would blush, there was no reason for her to blush.

But what if he didn't answer? What if he really was in trouble? She couldn't just barge in and drag him out of there, could she? Not even to save his life?

That's what Fred and George had told her – she had to go and save Oliver Wood. She was the best, she was the only one capable of doing it. And she had believed it? Because certainly the twins themselves would have been a better option, because they were good at making people laugh, and if their jokes wouldn't work on Oliver, they could simply annoy him into a confrontation, and if all else failed, they could barge into the bathroom and drag him out, or at least make sure that he was fine. Putting it like that, she was the worst person to save Oliver, and surely the twins had known it. It was probably just one big joke for them.

She hoped that it was like that, just a joke, just for fun, no hidden agenda or anything of the kind. She hoped they had picked her for their prank simply because she had been there at the opportune moment. She hoped they hadn't chosen her on purpose, because of those feelings that she definitely did not have towards her team captain. Probably not, but one could never be sure when it came to Fred and George. They were deceptively perceptive, or something like that.

She lowered her arm and turned to go, thinking for a moment on how to deal with the twins upon her return, but she didn't make it very far. Oliver had been an abnormally long time in the bathroom. What if there really was something wrong with him? She couldn't just leave him here, could she, without knowing that he was all right? Her insides twisted at the thought of it – what if he had slipped or something, and was now lying unconscious, with water pouring down on him? What if he was hurt, and she was standing here like an utter moron, blushing with the feelings that she kept on denying? Or even if he wasn't hurt, could she really leave him here to wallow in misery and disappointment? Could she leave him here all alone, instead of trying to comfort him, if cheering him up was too much to ask.

Determined, she went back to the door, raised her hand, and knocked loudly against it. The pause that followed seemed so long that she had already started to form her resolution of actually barging in, when she finally heard his voice reply, and her relief then was so immense that she almost put it into words.

Thank Merlin you are all right. I was so worried.

"Err… It's me, Katie," she said, "I just wanted to make sure you're fine. You've been there for a really long time.

"Not that it's any of my business," she added quickly, "but I was just… I just wanted to tell you that… Oliver Wood, you are a good captain and we are a good team, thanks to you, and what happened today was not your fault, and next time, next time we will beat them, we'll beat them all!"

"There's much room for improvement still. We've got a lot of work to do," the voice replied from inside. It sounded fine; it was the kind of tone he would use for explaining them why they had to wake up half past five in the morning, not the kind belonging to someone that tried to drown themselves. He sounded all right. But she didn't want to leave him yet.

"We will do that," she promised. "We will train really hard from now on."

"You are fine, right?" she couldn't help but ask.

"Why shouldn't I be fine?"

"Well, Fred and George said that you are trying to drown yourself in there," she replied matter-of-factly. "They sent me here to make sure that everything was well."

"Did they?" he asked, and there was now a touch of feeling in his tone. She understood it well – it betrayed annoyance towards the twins and she hoped he would make them train extra-hard because of it. But he wasn't like that; he wasn't revengeful, and he wouldn't do anything to mess up their team dynamics.

"They did."

"Then you better come in and make sure that I'm alive."

"What?" Katie exclaimed, jumping away from the door as if it could somehow pull her in. "I'm not coming in there! I do not barge in on people in the shower! Especially _boys_!"

She blushed dark red again, glaring at the door, and wishing… nothing at all. Nothing whatsoever.

"I'm not taking a shower."

Very carefully, Katie took a small step towards the door.

"I can hear the water running," she called in accusation.

"I like the sound of water," he replied. "It soothes me."

"Oh. What are you doing in there, then?"

"Training schedules. Game tactics. Next time, Bell, we'll beat them. But it will take a lot of hard work."

Katie signed, and leaned against the doorframe, "Do we have a six o'clock practice tomorrow morning?"

"Perhaps not tomorrow," he replied, and she knew he would have given a different answer, had he thought he could get away with it. But the rest of the team, including Katie herself, had made it very clear to him what they thought of such things.

"Will you come in, Bell? It feels strange, talking through the door."

"Stranger than doing training schedules in the shower?" Katie returned, happy to remain where she was. She really liked the door between them, her freedom to blush without care, not that there was anything to blush about.

"You know, Wood," she said, "Or perhaps you don't know, but there's more in life than Quidditch."

Saying this, she echoed what had been said to their captain countless of times before, usually when six o'clock practice had been mentioned, but she realized that she was speaking these words for the first time ever.

"Like what?"

His reply came as a surprise to her, for she hadn't expected anything more than a grunt of some sorts, and therefore could not answer right away.

"Friends. Good books, and music, and just spending time with your friends, talking and laughing together. Travelling. Seeing new places and trying out new things. People around you. People who care about you. People whom you care about. Relationships of all sorts. Good sorts."

"Bell," he said, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Yes. No. I don't know. You go first.

"Like what?" she asked, careful to sound indifferent.

"Are you… are you having a relationship of some sorts with someone on the team?"

"You think I came to tell you this?" she cried in surprise. "Merlin, Oliver, I just wanted to make sure that you're fine. Do you really think I would pick a night like this to tell you _more_ bad news? That would be cruel."

"Sorry. But I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me."

"Good."

And no, I'm not having a relationship of that sort with anyone on the team, and I have no intention of staring one in the future. None whatsoever.

"I'll be going now, then," she said after a long while. "See you tomorrow."

"Wait, Bell. Katie. Thank you. For caring."

She smiled at the door. "Don't mention it."

She waited for a little while longer before leaving. She was feeling closer to him now than ever before, with a door between them. And it was all thanks to Fred and George. But when she finally did leave, and reflected upon her mission of saving Oliver Wood, she realised, that this was as close as she would ever be to him, and all those feelings that she stubbornly kept denying didn't seem to be going away any time soon. Such things did she realise, and it was all thanks to Fred and George.

She might just mention them something about six o'clock practice upon her return.


	5. Bother

**Bother**

Professor Sprout left her office in a good mood, whistling a little tune as she walked. Everything was fine in the greenhouses, growing well, healthy, thriving. And if her beloved plants were happy, so was she. Later, she would take her special fertiliser – made by an old secret family recipe – and give them a treat. She went on planning how to best take care of one plant or the other, when suddenly an uncomfortable chill made her shiver. Confused, she took another step and everything went back to normal. Pomona frowned, turned around, and understood at once.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon, Sir Nicholas," she said in her naturally cheery tone. "I was so occupied with my thoughts I didn't notice you hovering here."

"That is quite all right," the ghost replied gloomily – it was quite likely he had not noticed Professor Sprout either, even when she walked right through him. Sir Nicholas had also been preoccupied with his thoughts.

Pomona nodded and would have walked on, but his dreary expression made her pause. Sir Nicholas was never a jubilant figure, but today he looked especially low-spirited. And since Pomona was in a good mood herself, she couldn't help but try to share it with others.

"Is something the matter, Sir Nicholas?" she inquired with polite compassion. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

The look and sigh she got in reply indicated that there probably wasn't.

"Unless you can find an axe to cut off my head completely, I'm afraid there is very little you can do," he said morosely. "But thank you all the same."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Pomona and hesitated. She knew about the Headless Hunt and Sir Nicholas's indignation for not being allowed to participate in it – most of her colleagues had heard of it, at one time or another, usually from the ghost himself. She wished there was something she could do, but in such a miserable state as he was, nothing would cheer him up, most probably. Yet she still decided to try.

"Do you think there is such an axe that could chop off your head?" she asked.

"I do not know. They tell me there isn't," he said and sighed. "I asked Bloody Baron once, because he looks as if he might have a sharp object of some kind on him, but he told me very rudely to leave him alone."

"I am not much of an expert on ghostly weapons or apparition anatomy," Pomona remarked, "but even if you could chop off your head, I don't understand why you'd want to do it. It seems such a bothersome thing to me, to go around without your head."

"Not as bothersome as to have your head half chopped off, trust me," Sir Nicholas said, warming up to the subject. "I could take part in the Headless Hunt then, if I wanted. Not that I do, I've grown quite past that silly wish."

Pomona didn't comment on such an obvious lie. Instead she said, "But wouldn't it be tiresome to have to carry the head all the time? To remember to take it with you when you leave the room? And what if you put it down somewhere and forget where is was – then you have completely lost your head!"

"I do not think that could happen," Sir Nicholas said.

"Oh! Perhaps it couldn't," Pomona exclaimed, slightly afraid that her words might have sounded like a bad pun, though had not been intended as such – unless Sir Nicholas found it funny.

"I suppose someone could play a trick on me and steal it," Sir Nicholas said. "Some ghosts who happen to lead the Headless Hunt may not be above such childish behaviour."

He pondered this possibility for a moment, frowning; then his expression cleared.

"But certainly the others would not hold with it, and then perhaps I could become the leader myself," he said, almost dreamily, then hurried to add, "As if I wanted to join that rowdy bunch."

Pomona nodded uncertainly, not sure what more to say to console the ghost. Sir Nicholas fell silent, and hovered a little further.

"I still don't think it would be a good idea to lose one's head," she said, half to herself, then continued her way.

Once out of the ghost's hearing distance, she resumed her whistling.

* * *

**Afterword: **

This is the first piece with randomly picked characters. My next random pairing is Marge Dursley and Lord Voldemort - and I have no idea what to write! In the meantime, however, there will come another Daphne, and maybe something about Luna.


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